Blah, blah blah, practicing cursive. Sometimes cursing. Musing, venting, observing, and occasionally writing stories. Perfecting comma placement.

On a good day, I take my coffee to the back porch rocking chair and let the words flow, distracting myself from the day ahead, the number on the bathroom scale, the unbearable headlines, and my stagnant dumbells.

This is my “Me” time, filling pages with ink I buy off Amazon. It’s a good way, a friend reads somewhere, to stave off dementia. Something about the hand-eye-brain connection that differs from fingers on a keyboard.

On a not so good day, I don’t have or take the time to sit on the back porch with paper and pen. When this notebook is full I’ll add it to the stack of already-full notebooks, building my tower of words one inch at a time.

We roll down the sheet and the light patchwork quilt Bob had made for us in Ghana, and turn towards each other. It’s sheet-washing day, Saturday, so we leave the bed unmade when we get up. I start undressing pillows while Bob goes into the kitchen to heat up our coffee. We open the windows and discover an unexpectedly cool day. 58°.

We’ve seen 101° this month and discovered that 92° is almost refreshing as long as the humidity is low. A full body reset. Seems we are ready for summer.

I have mixed feelings about the solstice. I don’t want the days to get shorter. Well, a little shorter might be good. At 14 1/2 hours, they drag on more than I’d like.

Can’t they just stay the same? That’s what I love about the tropics, I tell anyone who asks. I love the predictability of a twelve-hour day. I’m not into roller coasters.

“Take it one day at a time,” Bob says when I bring it up. “Be here now.” He’s been doing a lot of meditating, been reading about mindfulness and non-duality. He is very chill these days, extremely patient, and I am learning from his good example.

As retirees, we have the luxury of time. No need to stress unless we cram our calendars, which we tend not to do. Time is fertile ground for mindfulness. I will savor my early morning goosebumps without dreading the sweaty summer afternoons ahead. We can afford to be chill. No need to sweat that which has passed or has yet to pass.

I am uppity regarding bling, proudly surrounding myself with stuff that makes sense. If it isn’t useful, or takes up too much space, or is hard to clean, I turn up my nose.

Enter our new decorative fence, a collaborative between Bob, Lyle, and our go-to handyman, Martin—with nodding approval from me—involving polished, 3/4″ thick aluminum skeletons and pressure-treated pine.

Last winter, Martin removed four gasping Red Tips and a truck-damaged Mimosa, turning our backyard into an exposed scar. Good for the garden in terms of added sunlight, but harsh on the eyes. I agreed that we needed a focal point, a fence perhaps, something to divert our attention from the kitchen compost, the triple-shredded mulch, and the long-neglected farm next door.

Bob and I were perusing online decorative fencing options, none of them terribly pleasing or unique, when Lyle stumbled upon a stack of aluminum skeletons in a Sanford scrapyard. Skeletons are what’s left after the parts you need are cut out of a metal sheet. Lyle has been welding eye-catching garden gates from steel skeletons for ages.

These aluminum panels would be perfect, especially after Lyle took them to his shop and polished them to a gleam. The entire endeavor would be expensive, but our fence would be unique, and it would never rust. I gave the project my full support.

There were a few smaller pieces, which we asked Martin to mount on the pole barn he’d recently re-sided. All three installations have admittedly brought endless fun as we try and guess what shapes were removed and what purpose those missing pieces might now be serving. Apparently, we are hard-wired to seek function within the form.

Additionally, we invested in three sets of prayer flags to dress up the garden and both porches. We chose splashy, hand-crafted flags from Etsy in lieu of the traditional Sanskrited squares.

The Jay is made from these words:

Remember who you are. Remember what you love. Remember what is sacred. Remember what is true. Remember that you will die and that this day is a gift. Remember how you wish to live.
–From How, Then, Shall We Live? By Wayne Muller

The Crow says:

I am here to represent Him Who sent me.
I do not have to worry about what to say or what to do,
because He Who sent me will direct me.
I am content to be wherever He wishes, knowing He goes there with me.
I will be healed as I let Him teach me to heal.
–From Helen Schucman’s A Course in Miracles

I love how our flags draw my attention away from my everlasting To Do list, how the breeze makes them whisper, “Take a minute to admire my colors.”

Inspired, the beauty berries put on their most impressive show ever. Bling attracts bling, I think to myself, sitting between the wildflower flags and the aluminum panels, half expecting a peacock to strut into our yard.

Camille has put a lot of work, love, and intention into this garden next to our front door. It is now mostly pollinator friendly perennials – Sweet William, Miniature Dahlias, Echinaceas, Butterfly Weed, Milkweed, Gladiolus, Purple Tradescantia, and some remnant Mondo Grass.

We wandered out after dinner to have a look at what was happening in our little slice of the world.

A wheel bug nymph and carpenter bee checking each other out.

Echinaceas are great! So many colors, so dependable on their spring return. Each one is like a firework caught in time.

Retirement is great! I highly recommend it. Unless you’re a bee.

Day after day, Bob and I harvest, cook, mow, trim, and weed together. This is what our dual retirement looks like: morning workouts, daily trips to the garden, languid afternoons, dinner on the back porch, an hour of Roku entertainment, showers in our magnificent new bathroom, and then to bed with our books.

It is a gorgeous day—the humidity is way down to 55—but by 11:00, my thoughts about going for a walk have evaporated. The A/C powered into our Sunday morning silence at 7:30, and Bob and I have already pulled in two and a half pounds of figs. We also brought in a respectable number of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes.

I’m sitting on the back porch with my pink notebook, thinking of all the things I don’t want to do. I keep telling myself, “You don’t have to do anything; it’s Sunday,” and, “You’re retired! Go lay in the hammock.”

At dinner last night, when I announced, “Tomorrow’s my day off,” Bob rocked back in his chair and said, “Sure.”

“Just you wait and see,” I said.

So, I will sit and write until I begin to sweat, and then I will do some yoga, roast the pimentos and skin and deseed the tomatoes. I will kill some fire ants underneath our chestnut tree with the hot tomato water. These are easy things, everyday things, like brushing my teeth. Not at all a Sunday Day Off Violation.

What I won’t do, is wash the bedroom windows, even though I saw their cloudiness when I opened the blinds before climbing back into bed this morning. My Suzy Homemaker voice whispered, But these are the last ones—you’ve done all the others—and you have all day.

Today I will resist that bad little voice. Today I will play, whatever that looks like. I’ve got something to prove. I’ll lay in the hammock and talk on the phone. I may take out my sketch pad or read another chapter of The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek.

Bob busies himself with the orchids, then comes outside to say hello. I smile up from my notebook scribbles, hoping he’s proud of me for sitting here under the shade of the crepe myrtle in my cotton shift this far into the day. He harvests sweet pears, makes himself something to eat, washes dishes, plays some Wingspan, then does some reading. Later, he will sugar the pickles that he soaked in vinegar overnight and air fry a pound of teriyaki tofu.

When the temperature reaches 85°, I retreat inside to do tomatoes and peppers. I return to my rocking chair an hour later with soup and cheese toast. I admire the neon light shining through the myrtle leaves and the crisp, dark green of the forest fringe beyond. I put down my bowl and plate and stare at a Ruby Throat on his perch, guarding the hummingbird feeder. Time is paralyzed, swollen and ripe, hanging like a fat, red fig.